174 SELECT POETRY

THE HAREBELL AND THE
FOXGLOVE.

In a valley obscure on a bank of green shade,

A sweet little Harebell her dwelling had made :
Her roof was a woodbine, that tastefully spread
Its close-woven tendrils, o’er-arching her head ;
Her bed was of moss, that each morning made

new 5

She dined on a sunbeam, and supped on the dew;
Her neighbour, the Nightingale, sung her to rest,
And care had ne’er planted a thorn in her breast.

One morning she saw on the opposite side,

A Foxglove displaying his colours of pride ;

She gazed on his form, that in stateliness grew,

And envied his height and his beautiful hue ;

She marked how the flowerets all gave way before
him,

While they pressed round her dwelling with far
Jess decorum.

Dissatisfied, jealous, and peevish she grows,

And the sight of this Foxglove destroys her

repose ;

She tires of her vesture, and, swelling with
spleen,

Cries, “Ne'er such a dowdy blue mantle was
seen |”

Nor keeps to herself any longer her pain,

But thus to a Primrose begins to complain:

“ IT envy your mood, that can patient abide

The respect paid that Foxglove, his airs and his
pride: